February 6, 2016

let me talk about that for a bit. because i never talk about writing. EVER. not me...

there's smartassy for you. and this blog hasn't had smartassy in so long i've felt like its web address is a fraud.

i've felt like a fraud. i call myself a writer, and the only writing i've done that i've been able to appreciate in the past year or so has been a handful of articles about the texas sentinels foundationeaster seals and its home buyers assistance programswill herndon and batten disease, big brothers big sisters and, most recently, a chili cook-off benefiting the st. baldrick's foundation that'll feature a nine-year-old girl who's successfully battled osteosarcoma. i've been privileged to have met some pretty fantastic people. i've been blessed to be able to share their stories. 

the only picky posts with which i've been pleased to have put out in the past year are wisdom wednesday: rainbow rowell, days like these, and what i don't want. three posts. three. the rest... whatever. it's a blog, not a bestseller. and not everything i write's gonna be badass.

that's the thing. i haven't felt i've written anything in badass in a very long time. even those pieces i just told you about. those three posts? those aren't phenomenal. the articles? i'm sure i could do better.

my characters? those four gals and their guys i created? i haven't played with them except for reading snippets at a writer's group to get feedback, in hopes that i might find for a lengthy moment a spark of the passion i sporadically have for their lives...

i go back and forth, vacillating between thinking i'm talented and i'm terrible. a couple of times in the past year, i've toyed with the idea of taking the some three hundred pages and tossing the ones that suck, so only the good parts remain and rebuilding the plot from that. but that's a tricky task when i'm bouncing back and forth from talented to terrible. it's taken me so long to write it, i'm not even sure it's worth writing anymore. i've had to reset the story's timestamps about a hundred times.

this week, i got to meet a woman who's written a book that will be featured in a technologically-ground-breaking stage production in the next week or so. she didn't have to write a single query letter. when she said that, i wanted to cry--both from envy and amazement. the sheer luck of that, yall, is pretty damned phenomenal.

this morning, i went to a workshop on query letter and agents and such presented by my high school english teacher who's making quite a name for herself as an author. it was helpful. i loved seeing her. i went knowing full well my stuff's not ready for that yet, but i wanted to see what she had to say. because i want it to be ready for that. i want to be writing. i want that kind of life for myself.

i'm happy for these women, yall. i certainly don't want to sound like i can't deal with their success. i am thrilled for them.

i don't want to be some version of james patterson, cranking out six thousand stories a year. i don't want that. that's much too much responsibility.

i can write better than half the crap i've picked up and put down in the bookstores. but i can't write as beautifully as i'd like, and it's pissing me off.

so... if you're the praying sort... i could use some prayers. i want to tell the stories of these eight characters who've been running around in my head for nearly two decades. they are my babies. i want to see them become as beautiful to others as they are to me. 

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